with you,
he'd be alive this minute."
Volunteers searched the woods for four days. The State Police manned
road blocks on the highways until Tuesday night, stopping every car,
but the boy was gone.
Beach spent a few hours tramping through the woods on Tuesday. He couldn't
rid himself of the idea that Cooley and Jerry Munk had killed the boy and
got rid of his body somehow, and that Cooley had then shot Jerry to keep
him quiet. He found himself looking for traces of a recent excavation,
even though he knew that was unlikely; to dig in these woods you would
need not only a pick and shovel but an ax to cut through the roots and
a crowbar to hoist out stones, and when you were done, if you buried
anything, it wouldn't be easy to hide the dirt. He knew there was some
essential thing he didn't know; he knew he was guessing wrong, but he
didn't know how wrong.
The FBI office in Portland put together a complete set of Gene Anderson's
fingerprints except for the left little finger, and these prints were duly
entered in their files together with a photograph of the boy furnished
by Chief Cooley.
Beach went out to talk to Alma Munk when she had had a day or two to
pull herself together. He asked her where Jerry's revolver was, and she
said she didn't know. Beach sent the serial number of the gun to the
manufacturer, and eventually learned that it had been sold in 1939 to a
sporting goods store in Laramie. Beach knew there was no point in trying
to trace it through the store's records; the gun had probably had three
or four owners since then.
The "Gazette" ran an unprecedented two-column front page story about the
"Tree House Murder"; reporters from the Portland and Salem papers came
out, and there was even a photographer from "Time," but his pictures
never appeared in the magazine. Souvenir hunters climbed the tree and
pulled off boards to take home. A psychic in Corvallis claimed to have
seen in a vision that Gene Anderson was living in a mountain cabin,
"in a Western state, near running water."
John and Mildred Anderson drove down from Chehalis as soon as they
heard. They talked to Sheriff Beach, and he showed them the books,
games, and papers he had taken from the tree house. There were letters
from correspondents in Switzerland, France, and Italy. "How did he ever
get to writing all those people?" Donald Anderson asked.
"Pen pals. They advertise in magazines for kids. I've written letters to
all those addresses, asking them to let us know if they hear from Gene,
but I'd guess he's too smart for that." There was also a letter to his
parents, never mailed.
"He was afraid to let us know where he was because Tom Cooley might find
out and kill him," Mildred said. "Is that what happened? Do you think
he's dead?"
Beach shook his head. "No telling. If he's alive, maybe he'll turn up."
"Can't you find him? -- can't the police -- ?"
"Mrs. Anderson, I know how you feel, but there's thousands of missing kids
every year. Runaways, mostly; they don't want to be found, and there's
just too many of them. If he happens to get picked up and fingerprinted,
then they'll identify him."
Beach would not give them their boy's belongings, but he allowed
Mrs. Anderson to copy down the names and addresses of his correspondents,
and when she got home she wrote them urgent letters. Eventually she got
three replies; the writers all said that they would certainly let her
know if Gene wrote to them again. After that there was nothing.
* * *
The coroner's jury met in late November; they listened to Cooley's account
of the incident, and Sheriff Beach's report, and they heard Dr. Swanson
testify that the victim's injuries were consistent with death caused
by a .38 revolver bullet, fired at short range, and passing through the
left ventricle of the heart. The jury brought in a verdict of murder by
a person or persons unknown.
Cooley went up to the district attorney's office afterward. "What the
hell do
he'd be alive this minute."
Volunteers searched the woods for four days. The State Police manned
road blocks on the highways until Tuesday night, stopping every car,
but the boy was gone.
Beach spent a few hours tramping through the woods on Tuesday. He couldn't
rid himself of the idea that Cooley and Jerry Munk had killed the boy and
got rid of his body somehow, and that Cooley had then shot Jerry to keep
him quiet. He found himself looking for traces of a recent excavation,
even though he knew that was unlikely; to dig in these woods you would
need not only a pick and shovel but an ax to cut through the roots and
a crowbar to hoist out stones, and when you were done, if you buried
anything, it wouldn't be easy to hide the dirt. He knew there was some
essential thing he didn't know; he knew he was guessing wrong, but he
didn't know how wrong.
The FBI office in Portland put together a complete set of Gene Anderson's
fingerprints except for the left little finger, and these prints were duly
entered in their files together with a photograph of the boy furnished
by Chief Cooley.
Beach went out to talk to Alma Munk when she had had a day or two to
pull herself together. He asked her where Jerry's revolver was, and she
said she didn't know. Beach sent the serial number of the gun to the
manufacturer, and eventually learned that it had been sold in 1939 to a
sporting goods store in Laramie. Beach knew there was no point in trying
to trace it through the store's records; the gun had probably had three
or four owners since then.
The "Gazette" ran an unprecedented two-column front page story about the
"Tree House Murder"; reporters from the Portland and Salem papers came
out, and there was even a photographer from "Time," but his pictures
never appeared in the magazine. Souvenir hunters climbed the tree and
pulled off boards to take home. A psychic in Corvallis claimed to have
seen in a vision that Gene Anderson was living in a mountain cabin,
"in a Western state, near running water."
John and Mildred Anderson drove down from Chehalis as soon as they
heard. They talked to Sheriff Beach, and he showed them the books,
games, and papers he had taken from the tree house. There were letters
from correspondents in Switzerland, France, and Italy. "How did he ever
get to writing all those people?" Donald Anderson asked.
"Pen pals. They advertise in magazines for kids. I've written letters to
all those addresses, asking them to let us know if they hear from Gene,
but I'd guess he's too smart for that." There was also a letter to his
parents, never mailed.
"He was afraid to let us know where he was because Tom Cooley might find
out and kill him," Mildred said. "Is that what happened? Do you think
he's dead?"
Beach shook his head. "No telling. If he's alive, maybe he'll turn up."
"Can't you find him? -- can't the police -- ?"
"Mrs. Anderson, I know how you feel, but there's thousands of missing kids
every year. Runaways, mostly; they don't want to be found, and there's
just too many of them. If he happens to get picked up and fingerprinted,
then they'll identify him."
Beach would not give them their boy's belongings, but he allowed
Mrs. Anderson to copy down the names and addresses of his correspondents,
and when she got home she wrote them urgent letters. Eventually she got
three replies; the writers all said that they would certainly let her
know if Gene wrote to them again. After that there was nothing.
* * *
The coroner's jury met in late November; they listened to Cooley's account
of the incident, and Sheriff Beach's report, and they heard Dr. Swanson
testify that the victim's injuries were consistent with death caused
by a .38 revolver bullet, fired at short range, and passing through the
left ventricle of the heart. The jury brought in a verdict of murder by
a person or persons unknown.
Cooley went up to the district attorney's office afterward. "What the
hell do
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